


wish not one man more

by tortoiseshells



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Confederate Surgeon Jed Foster, F/M, Gen, Speculating About Jed's Education, Uncouth Joking About Lice, Underground Railroad Conductor Mary von Olnhausen, What Is A Yankee Anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells
Summary: Word of Captain Foster's field hospital travels fast, and members of the Green family call on Mrs. von Olnhausen to ask for news.





	wish not one man more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts), [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And comes safe home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341008) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch). 
  * Inspired by [Such outward things dwell not in my desires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446887) by [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow). 



“Good morning, Mrs. von Olnhausen!” Captain Foster rose from the rocking chair, dark eyes darting to the basket held under her arm. “I trust you found your chickens unruffled and the coop unpillaged?”

She had indeed, and there’d been a strange, weightless moment when she’d realized it was so – less relief, and more a kind of pleasure. She’d wanted to trust Captain Foster’s word, however objectionable his uniform, and her faith had been rewarded.

“All accounted for,” she replied, letting herself smile, “I have your share.”

“You are an unexpected angel of mercy.”

“Not that, but a woman of my word, surely.”

“Woman, angel.” Foster waved his hand dismissively. “You and your blessed hens should be canonized by the Catholics. Do you know, it has been a month since I’ve seen an egg that wasn’t a nit?”

“Captain Foster, please.”

He begged her pardon quickly, though the mischief never left his voice or face, making him look far more like a boy or student than the grey at his temple allowed. “I have some coffee – ground yesterday, before we were all interrupted – and it’s best drunk sooner, rather than let it stale or let the scavengers get at it. _Pace_ , good woman. I am sorry for my vulgar humor.”

Mary had protested against the generosity, but it was to no avail. In the course of trying to refuse gracefully she offered to fix his breakfast with her own, in gratitude for the coffee, and because both meals were coming out of the same basket. He agreed, without any fuss or pretext, and so, with a quick pet to Plum, Mary found herself cracking eggs and humming in the kitchen.

Halfway through ‘Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair’, hand poised to snatch her toasted bread away from the flames, she startled to hear Captain Foster’s voice carrying through the house. “Mrs. von Olnhausen! Are you expecting company?”

Company? Mary felt her stomach knot, her good humor after the peace offering of coffee extinguished as swiftly as a candle in the wind. The visitors who arrived at odd hours and unannounced to her home were not the kind she could let Captain Foster and his men see – else, disaster for her, and worse still for the escaping men and women. 

_God above_ , this was what she had feared first and most desperately, when she saw Foster’s staggering men on her land. Bloodied and smoke-stained though they may have been, wounded grievously, too – they were Confederate. Men who’d been willing to kill or die to keep their brothers and sisters in chains – who’d cheered to see John Brown’s neck snap, and to see Mr. Douglass harassed in city after city.

She’d slept with the revolver next to her bed, and, in the half-light before dawn, slipped it into her pocket. Now, with some unknown party on the way, and Foster’s men scattered about, she gripped the handle – and let go. She couldn’t – it wasn’t useful, or right. She would have to find some other way, if fugitives had found her.

Breathing deep, Mary finished with breakfast, placing her dishes onto the tray: eggs, the ends of yesterday’s loaf, a sliver of butter and a scrap of jam. The blessed coffee – undoctored by chicory, he’d claimed, dropping his voice conspiratorially – sloshed in the cups. Willing her hands to be steady, the china not to betray her, she joined Captain Foster on her porch, looking fearfully across her fields to the shaded lane. A familiar, fashionable buggy had indeed kicked up dust, and was turning up towards her home.

She set the tray down between the two chairs – perhaps too quickly, too relieved, for the china did rattle – and began divvying the meal between them. “No, I was not. The war has certainly done away with some social niceties.”

“Mrs. von Olnhausen is vexed by unexpected visitors – thank you – How curious! It’s been my experience that Yankees put less stock in courtesies than commodities.” 

“You’ll forgive the observation, Captain Foster, but your experiences of my former countrymen are somewhat outside the boundaries of courtesy. As are theirs with you.”

“Isn’t it a tad presumptuous to assume I have never encountered a Northerner before this war?”

“Perhaps,” she owned, sipping her coffee “And you are, no doubt, about to correct me.”

“I was in Philadelphia for some time, at the Jefferson Medical School, to study under Dr. Meigs at his invitation.” He bit into his toast, and looked off, chagrin crossing his face. “Knowledgeable, but disappointingly Puritanical about chloroform and other methods of relieving pain. And his son!”

“Meigs’ son?”

“General Montgomery Meigs. I am honor-bound as a Confederate officer and gentleman to damn his eyes, and whatever other part of him Old Scratch would like. He’s the Federals’ irritatingly capable Quartermaster General, and if Colonel Myers was a quarter as competent, I would not be commandeering eggs and feverfew from respectable widows. Have you any feverfew, by the by?”

He’d started his explanation with a gleam in his eye, dismissing his own choler, and yet even as his flippant tone continued he ended in perfect seriousness. Glibness hid his worry. She’d begun to acclimate herself to Captain Foster’s rich voice, his patterns of speech, but that swift patter that mixed jest and upset could still stagger her, leave her a half-beat behind. “Of course,” she replied, biting down a comment about quinine.

“Good! Good. That’s something. Now, forgive the inquiry, but who is coming to call?”

“My neighbors, the Greens, I assume. It is their cart.”

Foster nodded at this, poking at the remains of his breakfast. “Well, you have my sincerest thanks for this meal, but as you are presumably who they have come to see, I had best make myself scarce and ensure my men behave around company – I wouldn’t want my barbarian hordes to destroy the good name of Widow von Olnhausen. _Bis später_.”

Keeping an eye on the buggy, now rounded the stand of dogwoods and close enough to see who had come, Mary demurred. “I would not say that for certain – it is an odd hour to call. But I will not detain you, Captain.”

Foster left her with a gallant bow, and Plum re-occupied the territory recently held by the enemy. “Tell-tale,” she spoke fondly to the cat, whisking together the cups and crumbs and plates, setting the tray aside to better greet her visitors. It was the eldest Green daughter – the married one, still mostly unknown to Mary – chaperoned by one of the Green’s enslaved women. _Belinda_ , her memory supplied.

“Good morning, Mrs. von Olnhausen!”

Mary moved down the steps to meet them. “Mrs. Stringfellow, good morning.”

“I hope you’ll forgive the unannounced visit, but we’d heard in town that you had wounded boys here.” The young woman smiled, anxiously, and gestured behind herself at a crate and baskets. “The ladies’ charitable society gathered supplies. I hope that I’ve come in time? In good time, I mean?”

“They are still with us. Their surgeon, Captain Foster, has just gone inside to check on his men. Let me fetch him. Perhaps her or his orderly can help you with your baskets.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s kind. I’m not sure Belinda and I could manage it all.” Emma Stringfellow alighted, a slim hand on her neatly-disguised but still-swelling waist, and took one of the baskets out of the back. Bandages, it looked like. Belinda did likewise, as Mrs. Stringfellow continued to address Mary, “I meant to ask after your Aurelia, as well. Belinda told me what happened – kicked by a mule, how terrible! Might she look in on her?”

Setting aside _“your Aurelia"_ , Mary nodded her assent, looking over to Belinda, whose face gave nothing away. “She’ll appreciate your concern,” she said, to the older woman particularly, “She’s mending in the kitchen. Please, go ahead and see her.”

Belinda accompanied her into the house, and headed assuredly for the back. Mary continued into the parlor, where Foster and another – his recently appointed orderly, Kendrick? - were changing the dressings on the wounded.

“The ladies of town have sent supplies,” she announced.

Foster scoffed. “What am I going to do with embroidery floss? I’ve a fine enough hand for surgery, but French knots are beyond me and useless besides.”

“There’s lint and linen for bandages. Perhaps some other fripperies besides, though true silk floss is quite dear – even devoted matrons would hesitate to part with it.”

“Hmm, and how would you know? You don’t seem like the embroidering kind.” Foster rose to his feet, rebuttoning his cuffs.

“I’m not,” she protested, and Foster laughed. It was a rich sound, one that made her feel as curiously light as the full hen-house in the morning, or his conspiratorial glee at the unadulterated coffee. He’d seemed dangerous in the dark, but the glittering night was a safe cover for his roguish flirting and the flush it inspired in her. She’d hoped the frank light of day would dispel that spark, and yet she found herself answering his teasing good humor with her own.

All this, and she had put her hand on the worn grip of a revolver not a half hour before, and wondered what she would do to defend the poor fugitive souls who relied on her. 

They rejoined Mrs. Stringfellow on the porch, Mary swiftly introducing Captain Foster and vice versa. The young woman curtsied prettily, spoke charmingly, and gestured to the crate and remaining baskets: “For your men, Captain.”

“I regret to say I can certainly make good use of this, madam. If you’d be so good as to lend a hand here, Kendrick?”

Kendrick did, looking just as greedily at the lint and dressings as he did the liquor, clearly not embarrassed by these newfound riches. Emma Stringfellow explained what had been found, and by who, conveying the wishes of her fellows for the good health of Foster’s men. It transpired that she had passed Reverend Hopkins on the way, who had nothing to send, but asked if there was a need of him; Captain Foster was less enamored of an unknown Methodist than a heavy bottle of morphine, but he assented, and Mrs. Stringfellow promised to pass his message along on her return. 

The conversation trailed off, and their work – or supervision of it – continued in relative quiet. Foster tallied up the supplies as they came off the cart, all noted down into a little battered book pulled from a pocket, the corner stained red. _Poor man_ , she thought, recalling his poorly disguised frustration at the state of his supplies, and the plain relief she’d seen when she volunteered her kitchen-yard apothecary. And yet – she recalled from minutes before Aurelia’s face in the slanted morning light, and Belinda’s concerned frown, and Sam, hopefully safe and far away – and dozens of other, desperate, faces – faces of fugitives in need of care, who would never receive the same as these Confederate soldiers. _Almost certainly not from Captain Foster_. The thought curdled her stomach, and made the last basket of provisions as heavy as lead in her arms.

Neither Foster nor her visitor seemed to notice, for which she was grateful – unsure as she was how she would have explained herself, how she would not have given her true sentiments and her purpose away. A flash of red cotton kerchief caught her eye, jolting her from her thoughts – Belinda had rejoined them. Foster was thanking her visitor for the supplies, and Mrs. Stringfellow ducked her head to hide a terribly girlish flush.

“Well, that seems about everything. I – we, the ladies’ charitable association, truly – hope that you will find it of use, though of course we all wish you had no need of it. Take care not to fall ill yourself now, Mrs. von Olnhausen – I don’t think Mr. Squivers has a drop of medicine in his shop at present!”

The young woman laughed nervously, and hesitated, stopping short of taking her leave. She fretted with her neat gloves, shifted minutely and impatiently, working up to speak again. “Captain Foster,” she said, haltingly, at last, “I don’t mean to pry or make myself a nuisance – please don’t let me, I know you have much to do, but what regiment are you with? A Virginian one, by chance?”

Foster, pre-occupied with his newfound supplies, shook his head. “No, madam. I’m with the Maryland Infantry – or what’s left of it.”

“Oh,” she sighed, but was not put off, “I have heard battles can be – confused. Perhaps you’ve encountered the Virginia Cavalry, while fighting? My husband was with them. Stringfellow – Captain Frank Stringfellow – with the Fourth.”

“I’m sorry, no. I have seen nothing of that regiment – or any Virginians in arms.”

Emma Stringfellow seemed to wilt a bit, hands curling in on themselves at her waist. Foster looked up, and looked at her closely – clinically, it seemed to Mary – taking in the girl’s swelling waist, disguised by the loose pleats and vibrant print. It was likely not a new story to him, and his face softened, taking pity. “I’m sorry I cannot give you news, but your husband being unknown to a surgeon is likely a good thing.”

She did not seem comforted, but thanked him kindly, and took her leave. With Belinda, she stepped down out of the shade of the porch. Mary passed an empty basket up to Belinda as soon as she was settled in the buggy, and Foster handed Mrs. Stringfellow up, as gallantly as the plantation-owner’s son he'd claimed to be.

“Good-bye! God be with you!” Reins in hand, Mrs. Stringfellow clicked at her horse and made to go – only to jump, nearly. “Oh, goodness – I’d nearly forgotten! I owe you a warning, Captain Foster – My mother would like to do something for you, to help with the care of the wounded. I’d not be shocked for you both to receive an invitation to a charity ball, or an evening party at the very least. You are busy - I know you are busy - but my mother is a determined woman, and you deserve all the advanced intelligence you can obtain. Well – farewell, Mrs. von Olnhausen, Captain Foster – Good health to you and your men!”

She flicked the reins, waved to Mary and Captain Foster, and headed off down the lane.

Beside her, Foster crossed his arms and cocked his head, as though equal parts intrigued and perturbed. “A ball?”

"It may only be dinner," Mary replied, doubtfully.

**Author's Note:**

> whoops, a ~500 word drabble got out of hand again.
> 
> Thanks and kudos to middlemarch and sagiow! Their _And comes safe home_ and _Such outward things dwell not in my desires_ , respectively, were fantastic answers to an intriguing proposition. Setting-wise, I suppose this the day after _And comes safe come_ & _Such outward things_ , and an indeterminate time before _More eloquence in a sugar touch of them_.
> 
> I think I went and made things worse, but someone in the cast had to have an ill-advised marriage and, let's face it, Emma doesn't always make good choices. (I was/am intending to dispatch Frank, so, if anyone else wants to play, feel free to shuffle him off the mortal coil.) 
> 
> Not a lot in the way of footnotes: The leading obstetrician/ professor of obstetrics at Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia was a Dr. Charles Delucena Meigs, between 1841 and 1861, and, as Jed says, he didn't approve of anesthesia, among other things. General Montmogery Meigs, the very savvy Union Quartermaster General best known for digging up Mrs. Robert E. Lee's rose gardens at Arlington House to bury the Union dead, was indeed his son. I have no clear idea if Meigs' Confederate counterpart, Colonel Abraham Myers, was as incompetent as Jed's implying, but Myers certainly had a lot less to work with.
> 
> Title from _Henry V_ 's St. Crispin's Day speech, as is the general fashion.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wear me as a seal over your heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627625) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)
  * [He which hath no stomach to this fight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16635797) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)




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